Fields of Gold
by Lunar1
Summary: Contact with a race through the 'Gate brings SG1 to the attention of a powerful alien society, with disasterous consequences. You'll have to wait for the title to make sense!
1. The Engagement

Colonel Jack O'Neill USAF picked up the razor and looked into the mirror and the tired, grey faced reflection therein, shaving foam dripping onto the bare chest. The razor moved rhythmically over the stubble of the day, the steady scraping of the blade and dripping of the tap providing a background to the pulsing thoughts of the shaver. He rinsed away the foam and patted his face dry calmly, before picking up some of the deodorant cans and spraying the sweet smelling spray. His actions seemed quite typical, except for the fact that O'Neill seemed reluctant to meet his own eyes in the mirror. 

He stepped into his bedroom and started to dress himself; white tee shirt pulled over tanned arms, blue jeans belted around the waist to cover long legs and Simpsons boxer shorts. White socks, sneakers tied neatly and a little gel ran through greying hair cropped in a short, military fashion. He ruffled the hair a little until he was apparently satisfied, took a deep, steadying breath and walked downstairs.

He sat down on his leather sofa, staring at a dark TV screen blankly, lost in his own thoughts until the doorbell rang. 

It was Doctor Jackson. "Jack. Ready?" he said, unusually direct. Daniel looked excited, his bright shirt and tie tucked into suit trousers looking exceptionally smart next to O'Neill's more casual attire.

O'Neill nodded. "Ready," he said softly; which was a lie. He doubted he could ever be truly prepared for tonight, but he was just about as 'ready' as he could ever be. Daniel read some of this in the set of the older man's jaw, the pale face and tired eyes betrayed the inner turmoil and the archeologist lost some of his excited bustle.

O'Neill ignored his concerned look as he slipped on his leather jacket, picking up his house and car keys as well as his wallet from the table. "I'll drive," Daniel said. 

"Fine by me," O'Neill answered. There was no way he was going to spend this evening sober.

They drove in silence; eventually Daniel began to find it oppressive and turned on the radio. There was little solace in the miserable lyrics of the two songs that were played before they parked in the lot outside their destination. Daniel turned to O'Neill after the crunch of the handbrake indicated that the ride was over, as if he wanted to say something, but O'Neill had already un-clicked his seatbelt and pushed open the car door, rather harder than was necessary. Daniel's troubled look deepened; he had known tonight would be hard but he had not anticipated this much quiet rage in the Colonel. He took his own calming breath before following O'Neill inside the squat building they had parked outside.

Inside the lights were dim, Daniel had a glimpse of O'Neill slouching off in the direction of the bar before he was pounced upon by some of the other guests from the SGC, all her under the pretence they worked on deep space radar telemetry. Daniel couldn't see that cover story holding up very well under scrutiny tonight, but it wasn't his problem.

It was Sam Carter's. 

O'Neill sat down as the bar and ordered a bud. It arrived in the bottle and he took a swig before starting to play with the bottle, watching the liquid swirl around inside the brown glass, picking at the bright red and blue label; anything in fact except drink it, or take his eyes off it. Because taking his eyes off it might meant looking up again to see the huge banner that had caught his eye on his journey to the bar on the way in. The one now strung above his head, starting to droop a little forlornly above the bar but the gold lettering was still clearly visible:

Congratulations Sam and Grant!!!

He felt the three exclamation marks were a little excessive, but then engagement parties were about excess weren't they? He could dimly remember his own, god knew how many years ago now. He certainly hadn't had a banner, or fifty three guests invited from upstate. But then Jack O'Neill wasn't Grant Donnell was he? He wasn't a swanky lawyer in a large firm some thirty miles from the SGC, he wasn't thirty-seven with two Mercedes and an apartment in New York, and, what cut deepest of all; he wasn't engaged to Sam Carter.

He couldn't remember when he'd first heard Grant's name. He knew Carter had boyfriends out of the SGC, knew that they could never pursue their forbidden 'feelings' for each other, and yet he still felt terribly jealous every time she went out on a date; he still teased her about it for days afterwards, until eventually she had stopped telling him about any other men in her life, fed up with the bitter sarcasm. He'd been fine with that, what he didn't know couldn't hurt. So it had been a while before he had heard about Grant.

It had been even longer until he had met Grant, one of the most painful moments of O'Neill's life, definitely in the top ten most awful moments, probably right behind Charlie Kawalsky's death. he hadn't spoken to him for long; he found the man irritating, as talkative as Daniel but without the archeologist's gentle tact; arrogant and quick witted. A lot like Jack O'Neill in fact, even in looks. A younger, smarter, richer Jack O'Neill. Perhaps he should feel flattered that Carter was marrying someone sharing so many similarities with her CO, but he didn't.

He felt angry; angrier than ever before in his life. He'd left quickly after meeting Grant for the first time because the lawyer gave him the strong desire to thump something. O'Neill had only met him a few times since. He had been hoping that things would fizzle out between the Major and the lawyer.

But they hadn't. Now they were engaged. Damn it!

Around him the party moved on, the buzz of the excited chatter rising to a shrill noise in his ears as his thoughts clamoured for attention, consideration. Doctor Jackson distracted him by dropping down in the seat next to him, perspiring heavily having being dancing for nearly two hours. "Sam wants to speak to you," the archeologist said quietly.

O'Neill glance dup in the bar mirror, and felt his stomach clench with rage. "She's with Grant," he replied moodily.

Daniel repressed a sigh. "Not anymore," he said mildly, as Grant gave his fiancee a peck on the cheek before moving away to speak to some friends. O'Neill stood up so quickly he caught his knees on the bar, hastening over to his 2IC. He touched her shoulder and she turned to him, face breaking into one of the first genuine smiles of happiness she had expressed all night.

"Colonel! I'm glad you could come!"

O'Neill wasn't, but he managed a small smile. "Congratulations Carter," he said, giving her a light kiss on her cheek. If Janet had been watching she might have registered with medical efficiency the dilation of Carter's pupils in the dim light, O'Neill's dark eyes mirroring her blue ones as they both flushed a deeper red. Carter felt her stomach lurch as O'Neill leaned closer, his aftershave filling her world with a slightly musky scent. Her hand touched his arm, gripping a little too hard for such a casual circumstance.

"Dance?" she asked suddenly as a new song started playing. 

O'Neill looked guarded for a moment, but Daniel had already had three dances with the Major so why not? "Sure," he nodded, and let her lead him to the dance floor.

They swayed together slowly, barely touching yet between them a kind of electrical tension holding them in place, binding them together. As blue eyes locked on brown the world seemed to slow for the two soldiers- 

"Hey you two,"

- And then move on. The speaker was Grant, returning to reclaim his fiancee from O'Neill. The Colonel held out his hand, deliberately avoiding Carter's eyes now, instead meeting Grant's. "Congratulations," O'Neill said as the man shook his hand rather weakly.

"Uh, thank you. It's Jack, isn't it? Sam's CO. So you work in deep space telemetry too?"

O'Neill met the lawyer's slightly amused stare cooly, feeling the rage building up behind the levees of his mind. "That would be classified," he said. "See you Monday, Carter, have a great night," he added without even glancing at her, before nodding to them both and turning on his heel, striding towards the doors as the river of anger threatened to burst its banks.

Cassandra, the only other pickled onion in the fruit salad that was the engagement party was leaning against the wall outside. He imitated her, taking some deep, calming breaths; his exhalations steamed and hung like powdered ice in the air.

"Don't scowl like that, you'll ruin a pretty face," he said after a while.

  
  


Cassie snorted. "What's your excuse then?"

"I'm not pretty," O'Neill returned. "Shouldn't you be inside fulfilling bridesmaid duties?" he asked, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

Cassie made a face. "Probably. I wish Sam hadn't asked me."

O'Neill blinked; that didn't sound like Cassie "Why not?"

She turned to look up at him scornfully. "Because she's making a mistake. She's marrying the wrong guy."

"Yeah? Who's the right one?" he muttered, absently.

Cassie gave a derisive laugh. "You should have seen you two. From here I mean. Auntie Sam hasn't smiled like that all night. And when you were dancing-" 

"Cassie, leave it will you?" O'Neill cut in, feeling a hopelessness rising inside him to overtake the anger. "Sometimes the right guy doesn't get the right girl. End of story."

"I know. But I would have thought two people who've saved the world more times than I can count on my fingers would try a bit harder before giving up so easily."

O'Neill sighed. "It's illegal, Cassie for me to have a relationship with my subordinate. This is real life, not some teen romance film. Grant's a nice guy," he said, through gritted teeth, "And Carter's very happy with him."

"Yeah," Cassie said in a tone so laden with sarcasm O'Neill found himself snorting with laughter. 

"I think I've had a negative affect on you," he said, "Come on, your mom wouldn't be happy if I let you shiver out here all night, would she?"

"Good job she's got the late shift on base, then," Cassie replied, "I can't go inside. I don't want to upset Sam... but there's no way I'm talking to that creep..."

Privately O'Neill shared the young woman's sentiments. "You won't go back inside?"

"You'll have to carry me in," Cassie said, only half-joking.

O'Neill appeared to consider this. "Okay. Wasn't there a film you wanted to see?"

"What?" Cassie asked, confused by the sudden change of subject.

"A film. Late night showing. Better than shivering out here. It's been ages since I've taken you on a sort of uncle-niece trip. Daniel hogs you, and with that new boyfriend of yours I don't see you very much any more, have to rely on your mom for gossip. We've got stuff to catch up on. Tell me about school."

"Do you really mean that?" Cassie said, amazed.

"You betcha," O'Neill replied, taking out his keys and clicking the auto-lock. The lights of Daniel's car flashed as the security systems disabled.

"You have a key to Daniel's car?" she said, a touch incredulous.

"He loses his own that often I got fed up of breaking into his car. He won't miss it, we can pick him up later."

"You've been drinking," she chided, "Shouldn't drive."

He tossed the keys to her which she caught deftly. "You want me to drive?" she asked, eyes shining.

"You've got your licence haven't you?" he said, confused.

"Yeah. I sometimes drive mom to work. But Daniel's car is... well, nice. Do you trust me?"

"No," O'Neill laughed, as they climbed in, "But you're a better driver than Teal'c, and Daniel lets *him* drive."

"Fair enough," Cassie replied as she started the engine. "Where is Teal'c tonight anyway?"

"Off world, visiting family," O'Neill explained. "It would have been difficult for him here tonight anyway, with all these people who aren't in on the 'gate. Awkward questions and so forth."

The car pulled away.


	2. Capture

O'Neill clicked his pen, not listening to the early morning briefing, still tired after watching the late night horror movie with Cassie. His young not-quite-niece had laughed through most of the jump-out-of-your-seat-scare-'em film, the name eluded O'Neill at the moment; but he had been too busy brooding over the party he had left behind. The whole of SG1, bar Teal'c, had dark circles under their eyes and stifled yawns periodically. Perhaps for this reason Hammond had assigned them a mission to a fairly primitive, peaceful world. A farming nation, the planet had deposits of several rare minerals and seemingly welcoming natives; willing to trade anything for knowledge of their Stargate.

"SG1, you have a go!" Hammond said, making O'Neill smile somewhat savagely at the pad of paper he was doodling on, then he stood up.

"Sir," said Carter, the palest of the team around the table, "I didn't get to say goodbye last night. Where did you go? Was Cassie with you?"

O'Neill felt a momentary pang of guilt, but he brushed it aside with an angry remembrance of Carter's betrayal, and of Grant. "Yeah, Cassie was with me," he said vaguely, frowning slightly, "Sorry if you were worried..." He left the sentence hanging in the air.

Carter frowned too. "No, Daniel said something... see you later..." She hurried away, apparently distracted; if anything O'Neill thought she looked a little upset. He shrugged his shoulders. 

Daniel, watching the two of them from behind, looked troubled. He shot Teal'c a concerned look which the Jaffa returned calmly. "Such things will resolve themselves, DoctorJackson," he said quietly.

"I hope you're right, Teal'c, I hope you're right."

*

The 'Gate shimmered in front of O'Neill. Normally he would turn to Carter, smile at her, make a joke. Not today. He stepped through the event horizon without a word, relishing the feeling of his body being pulled this way and that, the welcome cold biting into his bones and chilling his fingers, numbing the pain.

He stumbled out of the 'Gate on the other side into bright sunlight. He pulled out his sunglasses almost automatically as the sound of the other three members of SG1 arriving through the gate preceded the 'scwhomp' of the closing wormhole. "Hi folks!" he called to the hesitant welcoming committee assembled a few feet away. "Jack O'Neill, Earth. This is Teal'c, Doctor Jackson... and Major Carter."

Carter registered the pause before her name and the slight sneer that was playing around O'Neill's mouth; she blushed faintly, her own guilt preventing her from feeling annoyed. 

"I-I am Jason," said the apparent leader of the group; certainly the broadest. "W-we welcome p-peaceful travellers to our world. We h-have prepared a feast in your honour. Harvests are g-good and we are willing to share our food with you."

Daniel smiled comfortingly at the clearly nervous man. "Thank you Jason. We would be happy to share information with your people, and we accept your invitation to this feast." He stepped down from the plinth on which the 'Gate was mounted and Jason lead him away, Teal'c keeping close to the scientist.

O'Neill rolled his eyes behind his glasses; any excuse for Daniel not to eat their MREs. He followed the farmer and his companions down the dirt track away from the 'Gate. Carter shifted the weight of her pack and set off behind him, last in line, largely ignored on their journey.

*

"You shouldn't play with your food," Carter said, smiling as she took a seat next to him at the feast.

O'Neill blinked at her in surprise; he had been lost in his own thoughts, turning a gnawed chicken bone over and over as he sat. Carter had been talking with the blacksmith for the last hour with Daniel. Full enough with the food provided for them by Jason's people he had become lost in his own dark thoughts. Outside the night was drawing in, sunset arriving to streak the sky with bloody red light, companion of which was spilling out of the hearth being created by the smoky fire burning merrily therein.

He put down the chicken bone. "Interesting conversation?" he asked.

Carter laughed. "Unparalleled. I never knew Daniel knew so much about ironmongery!" 

"He's a man of many talents, our Space Monkey."

For a moment the old air of camaraderie returned. "Jason says we can sleep in here tonight. It gets quite cold outside," she added.

"Excellent. We can build the fire up and have a nice warm night for once."

She smiled at him, the special grin reserved only for those who Carter really cared about. Himself mostly, Daniel and Teal'c sometimes. And Grant now, he supposed.

Insidious as the creeping shadows outside Grant had slunk once more into the Colonel's consciousness. O'Neill stiffened, his own grin draining. "I'm going to get some more chicken. Want some?"

He stood up quickly, not giving her time to answer and strode back over to the table, leaving Carter hurt, confused and alone. Daniel, still talking with the blacksmith, saw the red faced Colonel walking away from Sam, who on closer inspection looked near to tears

"Excuse me for one moment..." Daniel said, intending to make his way over to Sam, who was looking at her hands now, clenched tightly to prevent the shaking in her limbs from becoming noticeable. She didn't know why the Colonel's attitude was affecting her so much. She was marrying Grant, for goodness sake. What should the old soldiers view on her engagement matter...?

At that moment there was a scream from outside. Heads around the room snapped round as a young man, face blanched with terror, came tearing into the room. "Jason!" he said, voice hoarse with panic, "They're here Jason. They've come again."

More screams erupted around the room. O'Neill grabbed the table to stop himself from being drawn along with the general tide of people, streaming for the exits.

"What the hell...?" Daniel asked, compulsively reaching for his P-90.

"I have no idea," said the Colonel, his features suddenly sharp as he slid off the safety of his gun with a practised ease, "But I don't think it's good."

Teal'c raced into the room, almost looking fearful. Carter leapt to her feet and slid the safety off her own gun. "O'Neill!" the Jaffa said, "There are alien ships in the sky. I do not recognise them but I do not think they are frien-" 

He was cut off by the unmistakable sound of energy weapon fire. "Let's get out of here," O'Neill said, heading for the door.

The darkness outside was complete, no street lights or torches shed any light as they ran back towards the gate. The screams continued all around them; Carter's heart was hammering madly as they pounded across the fields, slipping and sliding over crops indistinguishable in the pitch-blackness. There was a flash of light. She glanced over her shoulder, the silhouette of O'Neill was visible running behind her. Behind him the night sky looked like it was on fire, a huge orange fireball was apparently plummeting towards the earth. There was another crackle and brighter light suddenly flared, lighting up the cabbages crushed beneath her boots. Energy discharge sent soil a few feet away to the left flying into the air in a damp column which showered the team. 

Now there were moving shadows all around them in the dim light of the landing spaceship and the braka-braka of apparent machine gun fire. Another shock wave of energy weapon impact knocked Carter to her feet. Daniel and Teal'c, oblivious, ran on. O'Neill, taking the rear as always to ensure the safety of all his team, grabbed her collar and pulled her to her feet. "Run!" he shouted, "Grant'll never forgive me if you don't get back in one piece."

Carter opened her mouth to say something as she started to run again, gasping for breath but there was another splutter of machine-gun fire, very close. She put her head down and started to run faster, O'Neill sprinting beside her.

His knee was paining him; he had slipped on one of the cabbages earlier and twisted it. Ahead he could see the Stargate starting to spin as Daniel frantically dialled home. Three chevrons were glowing as more earth showered down on them.

There was another close burst of machine gun fire. Carter heard a scream, an explosion of agony behind her; she wheeled around to see O'Neill cartwheel into the air, landing heavily on the ground.

Carter was beside him in an instant, all worries for her personal safety forgotten. There was the familiar sound of the Stargate connecting; a shimmering blue light illuminated the landscape. O'Neill had been shot in the leg. His face was deathly pale, screwed up in hurt, mouth opening and shutting soundlessly. "Jesus! Carter, get out of here!" His voice was thick with pain.

"Not without you, sir."

"Carter!" he coughed, spitting blood to the floor.

"We don't leave our people behind."

"Go!! Please," he begged, voice becoming fainter, "Please, you're supposed to be getting married soon. Please... don't die here..."

"I-I can't," Carter whispered in reply, trying to staunch the flow of blood with her hands as she spoke, "Sir.. Jack.. I can't."

"Go.." It was a mere whisper now, almost swallowed by pain.

"I can't," she repeated more clearly, "I love you... I can't leave you."

"I know." His hands sought hers, gripping them fiercely as she faded from his red-mist speckled vision. "I know."

She held his hand tightly. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "So sorry." Over and over like a mantra, her apologies rained down on O'Neill until he felt he was floating on a sea of them. 

"Don't be... you had a right... to be... happy. Grant makes... you happy..."

"Not as happy as you," she replied, voice now choked with tears.

He felt her lips brush his own blue ones, felt her hands clasping his firmly and the wetness of her falling tears on his face. It shouldn't be like this, he thought vaguely. Not here, in a muddy alien field with an attack going on around us. It should be bright and sunny, no clouds, friends around to hear us. I shouldn't be about to die.

He slipped into unconsciousness.

*

O'Neill didn't dare open his eyes when he finally returned to the world of the waking, afraid of what he might see. There was noise all around him, a whispering like that of the sea beating on the shore of the eardrum. A low thrum was audible beneath the whispers, a thrum that vibrated his body, his leg. A worm of pain shivered from his toes to make him wince as the vibrations suddenly rose and then fell in intensity. He risked opening one eye.

The ceiling above him was unfamiliar, black and shining like marble. He opened another eye. More shiny black ceiling. His nose reported the smell of stale sweat and other less pleasant human bodily fluids nearby, a strange contrast to the sleek newness of the apparent roof. It was pleasantly warm wherever he was, with a light breeze. Hopefully not hell then, at any rate.

He raised himself onto his elbows, wincing again as his leg complained at the movement. Major Carter, sporting a cut across her cheek and a black eye, was sitting on a floor as dark as the ceiling, looking away from him and through bars which formed one wall of their new surroundings. It was quite light in their cell but the corridors beyond were dark. He realised the whispering was other voices around him, talking quietly. 

"Hey," he whispered, throat strangely constricted and voice rough.

Carter's head snapped round. "Sir!" Her blue eyes showed concern.

"What happened?"

"You passed out sir, and we were captured by the enemy," she explained, a quick appraisal true to her military training. "We're on the enemy ship now, along with some other captives. I've been talking to Jason. Apparently these aliens take people quite regularly from his world. That's why they were so interested in getting the 'Gate to work. They wanted to escape."

O'Neill nodded slowly, trying to absorb all the information into a head pounding at the mere effort of being held upright. Carter gave him a pitiful look.

"You were shot in the leg, sir. They sent someone to look at it a while ago. They removed the bullet and dressed the wound. The... doctor or whatever she was said it'll heal quickly."

"An alien?" O'Neill asked.

"I don't think so sir. She looked human, and I can't sense any Goa'uld presence," Carter replied.

"So, are we dealing with a new species then?" O'Neill said, almost hopefully.

"It looks that way, sir. None of their weapons were Goa'uld, or their ship. I haven't actually seen any aliens... the ground troops were all human, and all the prison warders. Jason assures me that they're just slaves. He even knows some of them."

O'Neill lay back again. "Did Daniel and Teal'c make it back?"

"I think so sir," Carter answered, looking decidedly uncomfortable. 

"How long was I unconscious?" the Colonel asked, deciding that revealing how much he could remember after he was shot would probably not the best thing he could do at the moment. 

"Nearly eighteen hours sir. I was worried." She gave him a thin smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"Hmm," he sighed, trying to make mental space for all of this. "Any food?" he added, as his stomach gave a rumble.

"We've got three days worth of rations between us sir, and they've provided us with food ever since we were put in the cells. And water."

"Oh good," he replied. He realised that Carter's jacket was the pillow beneath his head and he gave her a weak grin. "Thanks, Major," he said, indicating the pillow.

"Least I could do, sir."

The ship moved on through the star speckled blackness of space as one by one the prisoners fell asleep, O'Neill and Carter included.


	3. Persuasion

Daniel squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before ringing the doorbell of Grant's house. He looked left and right almost furtively; a neighbour was twitching the curtains of the house opposite to see who was visiting. Daniel regarded door; he found the modern design of Grant's house garish and too extravagant for its suburban surroundings. At last the young lawyer opened the door and gave Daniel an enquiring look, raising two thin brown eyebrows until they were almost lost in the carefully groomed wave of dark hair covering his forehead.

"Hi," Grant said, a little shortly. He looked puzzled. "It's Daniel, isn't it? Sam's friend from work?"

"Uh, yeah," Daniel replied, "Can I come in?"

Grant looked even more confused. "Sure. I've got to go in a few minutes though. Want a beer?"

Daniel shook his head. "No thanks, I'm driving. I think you should sit down."

Something about the archeologist's uneasy manner eventually got through to the lawyer. "Is this about Sam?" He didn't sit down, but rested his hands lightly on the back of his leather sofa. 

"Yes," Daniel said. "There really is no easy way to say this; she's listed as MIA. Missing in action, do you understand what that means?"

Grant looked thunderstruck. "Missing in action? How can she be MIA? She works in radar telemetry!"

"We believe she was hit by enemy fire along with Jack... uh, the Colonel. We're doing everything we can to try and locate them-" Daniel stuttered.

"Enemy fire?" Grant cut in, "Enemy fire?! Who was she fighting?"

"I can't tell you that, I'm afraid. It's classified," Daniel replied as Grant ran a distracted hand through his hair; somehow still managing to maintain his effortlessly well-groomed look.

"Uh," Grant managed, looking as if the bottom had just dropped out of his world, "I can't take this all in at the moment. I need to think about this."

Daniel nodded understandingly. "Here's my number," he said haltingly, "If you want any more information you can contact me on that. As soon as we know anything we'll tell you..."

"Th-thank you," replied Grant, showing Daniel to the door. "God, I never-" He shut the door before finishing the sentence, leaving Daniel out on the porch feeling incredibly awkward and with a nagging sense of guilt he couldn't quite pinpoint.

*

  
  


O'Neill awoke, his leg felt as if it were full of splinters. The ache had doubtless roused him. Besides him Carter was curled up on the dark floor, still asleep. She was shivering with cold, probably because she had used her jacket as a pillow for the injured Colonel. He raised himself up to his elbows with a wince and pulled out her jacket from underneath him. Shifting awkwardly onto his side he tucked it delicately around her shoulders; taking simple pleasure in watching her steady breathing, the slight flush of her face from her slumber. He felt a twinge of guilt as the remembrance assailed him; Carter was not his to ogle anymore when she slept, she belonged to another.

He turned onto his back once more, trying to ignore the growing pain in his leg as around him others emerged from sleep, muttering quietly to one another, snoring if they still slumbered. The noises were vaguely comforting, peaceful noises without a sense of panic behind them, just resignation. Perhaps it was an ancient tribal instinct, he mused, to be lulled by the sounds of the pack at rest.

The vibration of the ship which he had become used to in the past few hours suddenly increased; the hum becoming a whine. "Aw, Jesus," he muttered as the movement sent fresh waves of pain through his leg.

Carter sat up quite suddenly next to him, making him jump in shock. "Ah! You scared me then, Carter."

"Sorry sir," she apologised, rubbing sleepy eyes. "I think we might be about to land."

"Why?" O'Neill asked.

"The noise of the engines. It was like this when we took off," she explained.

"Oh," O'Neill replied.

Carter pulled her jacket on around her shoulders, breathing deeply, trying to locate the source of a pleasant and vaguely familiar smell, although not one she recognised. It appeared to be coming from her jacket. A neuron gave a fizzle and she made the connection; it was the smell of the Colonel, transferred while he had lain on her jacket. It was a comforting scent. She pulled the green material more firmly about her.

The whine rose in pitch as if the ship itself was crying out in distress, rapidly reaching the aural pain threshold as a sudden sensation of weight pressed all the prisoners to the floor. Carter was picking at the cut on the side of her face, not noticing the Colonel's pale face, eyes screwed up in agony for a few moments. She managed to reach out and touch his shoulder, with effort. "Are you alright, sir?"

"Just peachy Carter," he answered through gritted teeth, "Never better. Argh!" 

His yell was echoed by others, mostly in shock, as the ship apparently landed with a lurch. The Colonel moaned, hands moving to clutch at his leg compulsively. "I think we've stopped," Carter whispered.

"Ya think?" he returned, the pain making him short tempered. "Help me up."

"I'm not sure if that's a good idea s-"

"God dammit!" His teeth were clenched in real effort now, the anger hissing through them as he sought to find the strength not to scream.

"- yes sir! Right away sir!"

On his feet, leaning heavily on the Major for support, he felt the pain lessen somewhat, although he was terribly light headed. Lights flickered on in the corridor outside the cells, pale human faces became visible. The bars drew back and a voice called out, hesitant but audible. "F-follow me! Follow us! N-no need to be afraid."

There was a general rush for the exit. O'Neill hobbled few paces trying to lean on Carter, not making very good progress. She grabbed his arm and pulled it around her shoulders, slipping her own arm around his waist. "Here. Use me as support."

O'Neill reddened slightly; he hated acknowledging his own weaknesses but there was no fight he could offer against the Major's plan and he accepted it without argument. They joined the end of a long line through a maze of similar looking corridors until suddenly there was light ahead, bright sunlight as opposed to the grubby, almost second-hand looking light of the space-craft. 

They stepped out into open air, a chill wind turning their noises and fingers red as it roared through lofty trees visible over the top of a large grey wall, topped with what looked like razor wire. They had exchanged their cell for an outdoor compound, people crammed uncomfortably into an area far too small. The human noises, comforting in the large cells, now became oppressive; there was a baby crying loudly, shrill in the wind, small children were snivelling, men shouting and women standing pale faced, resigned to their fates. Both soldiers were glad of the press of the other against them, protection from the cold and comfort against the blank terror of the inhospitable waiting room.

Someone prodded Carter in the back. They turned, O'Neill hopping, to see a small man dressed in a black uniform of some kind. He was poking Carter with what was unmistakeably a weapon. "Injured over there," he said, pointing. 

There was indeed a huddle of wounded shivering near a large door set in the walls. They limped over, more black uniformed people forming a wall between them and the general prisoner populous. Carter felt increasingly uneasy; her grip around the Colonel's waist became almost painfully tight.

There was the sound of scraping bolts and the door was pulled open. The purpose of the wall of uniformed men became apparent; they prevented the immobile injured being crushed as the prisoners rushed forward to try and move through the door. No one seemed willing to go first out of the wounded party. 

Eventually O'Neill shrugged. "What difference can it make?" he asked, and they stumbled towards the door. 

Stepping through they found temperatures on the other side uncomfortably warm, their boots clicking on polished black flooring again, the shuffle of O'Neill's one good foot sounding particularly loud. "This way," pointed another man in black and they turned into a narrow corridor, a tall door at the end. Carter pushed it open with her free hand.

Standing inside at the centre of a circular room was the most *alien* alien either of them had ever seen. Most species encountered had at least a vaguely humanoid look to them, very few if any had not been variations on the four limbed, symmetrical theme.

This one was different. It had six limbs: four set on the ground, two the equivalent of arms. All ended in three toes, those on the arms slightly more delicate than the feet, which closely resembled talons. After the initial shock at gazing on such a bizarre creature the mind's eye compared it to a legged snake, rearing like a cobra. The head had the same flat snout and well-spread eyes; as they watch a forked tongue flickered out from between long fangs. Along both of its sides was a row of spines, translucent skin stretched between the spikes that quivered as the creature breathed.

Carter heard the Colonel breath an obscenity as it fixed them with a beady yellow eye. He in turn felt her body stiffen with fear as someone entered the room behind them.

"Go on," someone whispered, apparently to Carter, "He wants to communicate with you."

As if in a dream she obeyed, removing her arm from O'Neill's waist and walking towards the alien. It cocked its head as if considering something, and the placed a clawed hand on her forehead.

The uniformed human who had moved forward to support O'Neill when Carter had walked forward now held him back as the Major screamed in agony. "What's it doing to her?" O'Neill bellowed over her wails.

"Communicating. Stand still, it will be your turn shortly."

Carter screamed until she was hoarse as she felt for the third time in her life the presence of something else inside her mind. The world became a series of fractal images. She could see *herself* screaming, the Colonel fighting to get to her, *and* the inscrutable alien face. She could feel its thoughts, cold and calculating as it trawled through her memories. Before her eyes drifted visions; she flinched as she relived various unpleasant experiences. Her screams ululated in anguish as the creature reached deeper into her mind, dredging up memories of torture that were not only her own but Jolinar's as well.

And then quite suddenly it retreated, leaving her almost alone in her own head. The pain became a mere prickling. 

You have knowledge of the Stargate?

The voice was so sudden she cried out once more as the pain rose again; the image of the 'Gate flashing before her eyes.

"Yes!" she replied, "Yes, oh God, stop please!" 

You can mend such a device?

The DHD. Some of the crystals shattered.

"Yes!" she repeated. "Please, stop, I can fix it. Stop! Please!! PLEASE!!" she begged.

Then that will be your purpose.

It let go of her and she fell to the floor, face wet with tears. 

The Colonel broke free of restraining arms and limped towards the creature, snarling. "What have you done to her?!"

The creature regarded him for a moment and then grabbed his head, cutting into his skull with the sharp talons in its eagerness. O'Neill jerked and yelled as loudly as Carter had, feeling the same confusion and pain.

You are a warrior.

"Yes," he whispered in reply.

You can train men in combat.

"Yes."

That will be your purpose.

"No, I don't think so," O'Neill managed to reply, struggling to escape from the grip. "I won't help you enslave more people."

The ensuing pain was the most intense O'Neill had ever experienced in his life; it felt as if his head was splitting along the cuts inflicted by the creatures claws, rising in his chest to make breathing impossible. The creature spread wings previously folded along the length of its body, a frill extended around its neck and it hissed like a boiling kettle. YOU WILL DO AS WE SAY OR WE WILL KILL THE FEMALE.

O'Neill couldn't reply verbally, but the creature heard his angry response nonetheless and a harsh laughter echoed in O'Neill's brain. You think we will not kill her because we require her to fix out Stargate? You have a strong mind, I see. But there are many memories here buried deeply, memories you have no wish to see again. Do as I ask. No? Perhaps you require some more persuasion...?

O'Neill shrieked as the vision burst in his head. Carter raised her head muzzily to see him writhing through teary eyes. She wondered what he was reliving. 

You will train men in combat.

O'Neill vomited with the combination of pain and remembrance. There could be nothing worse than watching one of the horrors of his own terrible past with no opportunity to look away or close his eyes; even if he did the vision would still play on, projected on the inside of his eyelids, it would follow him whichever way he turned his head...

"No."

There are other memories here. Far worse than that. TRAIN MEN.

"No."

His yells filled the room once more, punctuated with sobs this time.

Train them. I will stop this if you agree.

"No."

You leave me no choice.

O'Neill didn't scream this time; he writhed as if he was being electrocuted and when he did relax, twitching now and again spasmodically, Carter could hear him crying.

Train men.

"Okay," he whispered, "Alright."

The creature let go of him and he fell to the floor, curling into a foetal position and still sobbing. Carter grabbed his shoulder in a vague attempt to comfort him; human contact was sorely needed after experiencing such a brutal assault on their very consciousness. O'Neill didn't appear to notice.

Take them away. Feed them, clothe them and house them. The very best. They know what they have to do.


	4. The Beginning

Carter awoke slowly, every muscle in her body aching as if she had run a marathon. Her head pounded, compounding with her nausea to make her feel more ill than she ever had felt before in her life. It took a while for her to become lucid enough to realise that she was lying on her back, her mattress something soft yet curiously prickly; she was staring at what was apparently a ceiling made from planks of greyish wood.

She moaned softly, unwillingly, not wanting to succumb to the pain but doing so anyway. How had she ended up here? Wherever here was...

She sat up slowly, holding her head in her hands and swallowing down the hot bile that rose in her throat when she moved. She was in a small room, entirely constructed from the same grey timber. She had been deposited on a straw mattress. Opposite her bed there was a washstand, a small spotted mirror and a bar of suspiciously yellow soap. Turning her head slowly she saw through the doorway a large well scrubbed table and four chairs.

There was a groan away to her left. She turned, cursing as her head span sickly. Colonel O'Neill was lying on a mattress next to hers. There was blood crusted on the side of his face, in his hair, on his eyelids. He opened bloodshot eyes. "Carter."

It was said slowly, almost slurred from a raw throat.

She bent over him, brushing away some flecks of dried blood from his face. "Colonel?"

"Where are we?" The words were jumbled together, carried on the merest exhalation of breath.

"I don't know sir," she replied.

"God. I feel... awful," he said turning his head this way and that, "What happened? I-"

He stopped, his head flopping suddenly, arms dropping as he remembered. His blood shot eyes took on a blank, shut-off look. He closed them again and was silent.

"Sir?"

There was no reply and Carter sighed, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I'm here, sir."

The silence was filled with the roar of blood in her ears, heart beat slightly erratic and her stomach still churning. After a while she lay back herself, unable to think through a fog of fatigue and sickness. She fell asleep again.

*

O'Neill was not asleep. He was somewhere deep inside his head, crying in his very soul as flashes of the memories forced into his consciousness so vividly by the creature continued to play in his head. 

Kawalski's death.

The engagement party.

His divorce from Sara.

Torture; over and over reliving the pain.

And Charlie's death, the sharpest sting of them all. The one memory that could reduce him to tears. 

He couldn't feel Carter's hand on his shoulder, he was so absorbed in his misery. Eventually he seemed to pull away from the snippets of hazy pain, claw his way out of the dark pit of depression he had fallen into. He sat up suddenly, dislodging Carter's unregarded hand and waking her. He was breathing deeply as if he had been running, sweat soaked. The cuts on his head stung and his stomach was unsettled but he felt... better.

"Sir..? You better?"

"Yeah" he lied, "Where are we Carter?"

"I... don't know sir.. I fell asleep again. Uh, I didn't explore-" 

"Hey, don't sweat it Carter," he cut in, trying to keep his voice light, "That was some party last night. And some hangover."

Carter winced at his quip, uneasy about turning such a situation into a joke, although O'Neill was obviously quite comfortable in doing so. But then humour was always his safeguard against emotional pain. "Yeah," she murmured, standing up and stretching.

O'Neill mimicked her, wincing as he put wait on his injured leg. She darted forward to offer him support which he gratefully accepted. "Nice place."

"I like what they've done with the decor here," she added, playing along for now.

"It's very... grey. Yes. Grey."

There seemed very little else to say as they explored their new house. There were the straw mattresses, a dining table and chairs, the washing facilities, a fireplace full of cold ashes and that was about it. Once upon a time the door had been painted red, but now the paint had faded to a pinkish colour and cracked, the wood underneath rotten. There was an outhouse for a toilet; not even O'Neill could think of a joke as they stared, dismayed, at the cracked wooden seat and smelly pit below.

O'Neill sat down on one of the rickety chairs around the table; he could feel the depression rising up again to take hold of his chest, in this grey house on an alien world, decrepit and quite possibly dangerous. Carter perhaps read this in his face and touched his arm once more. He met her blue eyes briefly and felt the feeling subside. 

"Wonder what we do for food around here?"

"I think there's a larder..." Carter replied, pulling open a small door in the room of the main room. It was indeed a cold room, O'Neill blinked having never seen so many dead animals hanging up.

"Uh, feel like... kind of chicken... tonight?" He stood up unsteadily, using the chair as a support until he could reach far enough to unhook a thin bird.

Carter couldn't quite prevent her shudder of revulsion. "Um."

"I'll do the cooking," he reassured her.

"With your leg?" He frowned as she continued. "I'll do it. I still remember skinning a rabbit in basic survival training."

"A rabbit? We had a deer!" he replied.

"Yeah, well, when you did your basic survival you probably had to use spears and rocks to hunt down wooly mammoths..." Carter muttered under her breath.

O'Neill grinned, pretending not to hear as she started plucking the feathers from the bird.

*

"Ow. Itf howt."

"Of course it's hot. I just took it out of the fire," Carter returned as O'Neill winced and squirmed in his chair, writhing as his mouth was burnt by the hot not-chicken.

"Nife thow."

Carter laughed at his compliment. "Nice? It tastes like rubbery chicken."

O'Neill swallowed. "Cut me a break, Carter."

"Sorry," she whispered. There was silence, bar the vaguely animal sounds as they picked the meat from the charred bones of the bird with their fingers, not having any cutlery.

BAM BAM.

Carter's bone fell to the table with a clatter as a fist knocked so hard on the door the hinges nearly bent. O'Neill's hand started to shake almost involuntarily as memories assailed him. He concentrated on the trembling limb and the quivering stopped.

Carter stood up slowly and went to open the door, shivering with nervousness. The click of the latch sounded particularly loud in the hush of the room.

"Hello." Carter had opened the door to reveal a tall man, thin as a rake, with greying hair almost white at the periphery cropped close to his skull.

"Hello," Carter returned.

"Um. You're new here so I thought I ought to call round and explain a few things. May I come in?"

He reminded Carter of a government employee; he had the air of a man doing 'good' against great odds, but the 'good' he was trying to do was 'good' in the same way that taking bad tasting medicine was 'good.' She glanced to O'Neill for instruction, who nodded.

"Of course."

The man followed her inside and sat at their table. "Um. You know of course what tasks the masters have set you?"

"Uh. Yeah," O'Neill replied.

"Good. Um. You are still damaged from your capture. The doctor will see you tomorrow and advise us on how many days rest you require before you are fit to begin work. Um. You will work for eight hours a day on your assigned tasks, five days a week. For the other two you will join with the other population to be assigned other labour. Um. You will be granted days of leave depending on the success of your efforts. Your time out of work is your own. Um."

O'Neill blinked. "What if we don't want to work?"

"Um. I'm sorry?"

"What if we don't want to work?"

The bald man stared at O'Neill, horror and pity mingling on his gaunt face. "You have no choice. You will submit," he whispered, lips barely moving.

"Sir...?" said Carter, worried as O'Neill stared intently at the man.

Her voice seemed to snap him out his trance-like state. The man stood up to leave; Carter moved to hold the door open. As the door shut with a dull thud she heard O'Neill swear, thumping the table.

She needed to say something, could feel the darkness that was threatening to claim O'Neill as he ran a hand absently over the still raw cuts on his head. 

"Well..." she began but O'Neill cut her off with a grunt.

"I'm going to get some more sleep."

"I'll join you in a minute sir," she said in reply, "I'm just going to take a look outside our front door..."

"G'Night Carter," O'Neill rumbled, as he hauled himself to his feet with a wince.

Outside night was falling, the sky tinged pink at the horizon, a chill in the air. There was a dirt track leading straight past their house towards what looked like fields of waving corn in the gathering gloom. Ahead she could see the space-port, a huge ship launching, a dark silhouette against the sky. There were other shapes too, smaller forms in the shadows. She shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting to see what they were, moving so delicately like dragonflies over the water.

It was the creatures, their wings extended as they glided gracefully from parapets and balconies of, for want of a better word, the palace. They seemed to draw her eyes until she could almost see the spiny outlines of their wings, the red gleam of their eyes...

She started to shake, unable to tear her gaze away from the creatures, hearing the echoes of them in her mind and-- 

"Don't look at them."

She jumped, O'Neill's hands were on her shoulders, the warmth from his palms seemed to radiate downwards and fill her with life again instead of the terrible hollow emptiness that watching the creatures fly conjured.

"Come inside. Sleep. I get the feeling tomorrow's going to be a busy day."

Carter met his brown eyes, concerned and tired. 

"Yes sir."


	5. Hiatus

O'Neill woke up to find himself nose to nose with Carter. During the night they had shifted closer to each other, instinctively seeking warmth, and now he could feel her breath in his cheek. He lay perfectly still for a moment, enjoying the stolen moment of unabashed staring, tracing ever line of her face with his eyes in the hope he could commit it all to memory; keep it as a secret to share only with himself in quiet moments of contemplation. All the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Not to mention other things....

A twinge from his bladder drew him out of his reverie. He struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain from his leg and staggered outside to.... O'Neill refused to call it a toilet.... to the /privy./ Trying to convince himself that it was no worse than any of the toilets he had used on various alien planets he concentrated on the various knotholes of the wooden wall....

.... /Ah/....

"Sir? Sir, are you outs-- oh."

Carter had apparently woken up with much the same thing on her mind as he commanding officer.

"One moment Carter..."

He turned around. Carter was blushing faintly, or perhaps it was the remnants of the pink flush of slumber. "I've been thinking sir, there must be someone we have to get clothes from. And more food. And--"

"I know Carter. I guess we'll ask the doctor when they come. So much for the welcome wagon..."

There was no razor, so O'Neill was denied the opportunity of a shave, which irked him irrationally. He wasn't a great fan of shaving, often sporting a fairly healthy growth of stubble. He felt somehow it was justified, after years of yearning as an adolescent for just /one/ extra hair one his chin, that he could wander round with a beard now and again. 

Grant was always clean-shaven. That was something O'Neill had noted; feeling particularly scruffy next to the lawyer on one of their brief meetings. He'd rushed out of the house and... well, he was fairly certain that he'd shaved in the last forty-eight hours... maybe a bit longer... And Carter had looked at him and laughed. "This is Jack," she'd said, "My CO. Late night last night sir?"

And Grant had made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, any humour failing to reach his eyes as he'd studied O'Neill.

"So this is the Jack I've heard so much about."

"I'm sure some of it must have been good."

O'Neill growled, unable even to splash cold water on his face to distract himself...There was a knock at the door and O'Neill offered a silent prayer of thanks to the god of desperate men. A distraction.

He opened the door to a slightly cringing young woman dressed in brown sackcloth. "Hello. I'm to doctor. They told me your leg was injured."

"Yeah," said O'Neill, still blocking the doorway. 

"Can I examine it?"

"Yeah." He stepped aside. 

Carter entered from the privy. "Oh. You must be the doctor."

"Indeed. If you would take a seat, sir."

The examination did not take long.

"You will be fit to work by tomorrow, as long as you take care not to excessively exercise this leg," the doctor said.

"Uh. I've got a question," said O'Neill, "Where do we get water from? And fresh clothes? And more food for the larder?"

"Oh!" The young woman looked surprised for a moment. "The village. It is no more than half a mile to the north. Just follow the track-way away from the Palace. Turn left," she added in case they hadn't understood.

When she had left O'Neill stood up. "Right. To the village then, Carter. Let's go."

"Sir, I'm not sure if it's wise that you walk on that leg. I'll go myself, I can be back an hour and--"

"Let /us/ go, Carter," O'Neill said, through gritted teeth.

Carter met his eyes and decided not to push her luck. "Yes sir."

*

The track-way was obviously a cart path, the ruts in the road running outside hoof-prints. There was a crispness in the morning air, the sky so blue it hurt to look at, straining the eye. On either side of the track there were fields, full of rippling crops. O'Neill limped, slowing their pace considerably from what it would normally be. The walk took half an hour. On a good day, Carter reckoned she could have completed it in fifteen minutes. At a run, five.

They passed the well first, no more than a hundred metres from their house. A hundred metres more was another house like their own, grey washing hanging limply on a line outside. The houses seemed to be evenly spaced along the track-way, exactly the same in design. 

The village itself consisted of nothing more than a small shop, a butchers, what looked like a tavern of some sort, and a nondescript building bearing the plaque 'Provisionals.' There were barns a few hundred metres away and beyond that more fields of waving corn.

O'Neill pushed open the shop door. The bell on the door chimed hauntingly and the shopkeeper, ancient and deeply wrinkled, jerked awake.

"Hhhmmm?" he said.

"Uh. Hi. We're new in the neighbourhood and we were just wondering where it is we buy... you know, clothes and things like that," O'Neill said.

The man gave O'Neill a knowing look. "This is for spending reward coupons," he said in a voice cracked with age. "You want next door. If you're new."

'Provisionals' turned out to be a huge warehouse, where a faded sort of woman was sitting behind a huge counter.

"Yer new," she said wearily as soon as they came in, Carter half-supporting O'Neill once more. "I'll get yez some clothes and boots and explain things to yez. Hang on."

She disappeared behind the racks of clothing that stretched wall to wall, reappearing with an armful of brown sackcloth robes and two pairs of boots. "These ought to do yez. Now, if yez need anythin' yer come to me an' I'll try and get it for yez. Yez know about the working, don't you? Well, if yez works hard yer gets some coupons and yez can spend 'em next door. That's for treats. What else does yez need? I'll get yer a razor sir, and a shovel for the privy. There's some rope yez can have for a washing line, and some tubs. And soaps. Anything else yez be wantin'? Couple o' blankets mebee, for sleepin'?" 

O'Neill, hypnotised by the bizarre accent, nodded.

The woman threw everything into a huge tub and passed it with some difficulty to Carter. She leaned forward, to signal a private conversation from O'Neill. "Yer man's sicken, any fool can see that. Them buggers at that Palace do that with some of the new arrivals. They knock 'em sick for a while. He'll be fine after a few days. Yez better come down to the village once yer settled in an' that. Yez needs company when yez first gets here, believe me. They'll be plenty like yer. Go to the tavern. Got any littluns?"

"No," Carter replied.

"Good. It's no place for a child, here. No life for the mites. I should now, I was one. Born here. A lot of us are. But never enough! That's why they keep tekkin more. From all over the place. Different planets, or so they say. We watch out for one another here, yez understand?"

"Yes," said Carter, "I understand."

"Go on then. Yer'll be workin' no doubt tomorrow. Go to the Palace. Get some rest."

With some difficulty Carter hauled the bucket outside, O'Neill assisting as much as possible. 

"She thought we were married," said Carter, thoughtfully as they struggled homeward. She kept calling you 'my man.'"

O'Neill couldn't think of a reply to that statement. "Funny accent she had. They don't all talk like that."

"She was born here. I bet the doctor wasn't. They take people from lots of different planets she said... I wonder if they're all as agriculturally based as the one we were visiting...?Hmm. I doubt it. The doctor was quite competent....But if they're from a higher technological background, why do they live in these houses...?"

"Carter..." O'Neill said warningly, and she stopped, slightly shame-faced. 

"Sorry sir."

"It's not that I mind listening to you answering your own questions..."

"Sorry sir."


	6. Work

Sam Carter looked down at her attire and sighed. Military field uniform was unflattering at the best of time but the brown sackcloth robes provided for workers on this Godforsaken planet were something else. They itched. They scratched. And they all seemed to have been tailored for someone a good deal wider and shorter than Sam Carter. 

O'Neill emerged from the bedroom, having just finished shaving in the sink, and despite herself Carter had to stifle a laugh. O'Neill's robes were so short in the arm and leg he looked like he was wearing a woman's nightshirt; albeit one in a rather fetching shade of brown. The hemline of his robes fell only just past his knees.

The day was only really just starting to dawn outside as they began their walk to the palace, there was dew on the grass so opalescent it might have been partially frozen. Their breath steamed in the air as they walked in silence, O'Neill wincing occasionally as he jarred his injured leg on an uneven piece of ground. He kept his gaze firmly on the ground and as the Palace drew nearer Carter found herself following suite. 

O'Neill looked upwards and stopped dead, rooted to the spot. Carter looked up too as he halted so suddenly. 

The palace was not like the wooden buildings of the village they had come from. Stone built and coldly beautiful in a gothic way the towers rose like so many needles, stabbing at the sky now almost entirely frosty blue with the new day. She felt eyes upon her.

O'Neill collapsed into the mud making her yelp with shock and drop instantly to her knees at his side. His eyes were wide and staring as he shuddered. 

"Sir?" she breathed confused. Blood was beginning to drip from his nose as his eyes rolled madly. "Sir?!"

O'Neill could not hear her. He was inside his head once more, reliving the horrific memories from his past. 

Carter placed her hands on his shoulders. He screamed, looking up into a fanged grin. Slowly the vision faded and he was looking into the worried face of Sam Carter, his face wet with his own blood. 

"Sir?"

"Damn them. Damn them to hell," he muttered.

"Sir are you alright?" Carter asked as he sat up.

His eyes were still wild. "They're watching us. I can *feel* them."

"I know sir. Me too. Is it them that... made you-" 

"Yes. They're... warning me...Both of us..." He wiped his nose and blinked, Jack O'Neill once more. "C'mon Carter. Let's get this show over."

He struggled to his feet, squaring his shoulders. Carter gave him a dubious glance.

"Are you sure you're alright sir?"

O'Neill gave her a grey look and she knew better than to say anything else. 

The front gates of the palace were large and impressive. The elaborate carvings seemed to move under close scrutiny. "Do we knock?" Carter whispered.

O'Neill grimaced. "I have no idea. I guess we shou-" 

A smaller door set in the gate, invisible until opened, opened. "Ah. You're new. Come in."

The man who had opened the door ushered them through. He was small, with a screwed up, pinched kind of face and a limp. The 'click' of his left leg on the polished floors suggested that the cause might be a prosthetic foot.

He consulted a scroll pulled from the pockets of his thick overcoat, reaching almost down to the floor. "Ah yes. O'Neill. You're to work in the training centre. And Carter. You're to work on the *special* project." He looked them up and down. He didn't wear glasses but if he had he would have peered at them over the top. "Oh dear. You poor people. You shouldn't have had to go the provisionals for clothes. The masters ordered the best for you. Some sort of bureaucratical mistake, I assume. We'll stop off at the stores for some better clothes first. Follow me."

They did as instructed, O'Neill already too bone weary to think of any alternative and Carter following her CO instinctively.

The clothes given to them by what transpired to be the palace tailor were far better fitting; the same military green as their SG1 uniforms but of an old fashioned sort of cut. Carter was given breeches, but of a fuller shape and softer material than O'Neill.

After that, another similarly garbed man appeared to lead them away to separate destinations. Carter felt something lurch in the region of her stomach. She read a similar emotion in O'Neill's eyes.

"You'll be okay?" she whispered.

O'Neill met her eyes and she looked down, knowing she had overstepped some mark, insulted the Colonel's pride. Less than a week into capture on an alien planet and already the strict code of military discipline built up over the years between them was slipping. For the first time in a long while she thought of Grant, and a fierce and terribly guilt leapt into her throat making her feel quite sick. 

"Look after yourself," he returned, reading some of this in the stony line of her mouth before he was lead away.

"If you would come with me?" asked the man with the wooden leg. 

Carter followed him through a maze of corridors. She couldn't be certain, but she had a feeling they were heading downwards. 

The carefully carved stone gave way to more rough-cut passages. "These are the original worm-tunnels carved by the ancestors of our masters," explained her guide, "We are nearing their original settlement where many of them still dwell. Do not fear, they will keep out of our way while we are here. Our human minds disturb their peace."

Carter nodded, mouth dry with fear. 

They continued onwards, the downward slope becoming more and more noticeable, the dankness in the air growing. Stalactites hung from the ceiling and once more her breath started to steam in the air. Torches burning in brackets on the wall provided a smoky, orange light.

Quite suddenly the passage opened out and they were in a large chamber. The walls were lined with geodes that caught the light of torches, reflecting on the Stargate. It seemed in working order, Carter noted, giving it a brief examination.

"Where's the DHD?" she asked her guide. 

The man looked puzzled and she tried to explain. The light of understanding dawned in his eyes. "Ah. Yes. It is here."

He lead her to the DHD, handing Carter a torch so she would be able to see it better. Her face fell. The DHD was comprehensively smashed, the face and crystals underneath shattered. Her stomach contracted with fear. She could see no way of repairing this, even if she could develop a manual way of dialling there was no power source for her to use other than that utilised by the DHD. "I require tools," she said, her voice cold and hard as the slimy walls.

"They shall be provided for you."

The click of his wooden leg faded away into the darkness. Carter buried her face in her hands.

*

O'Neill was lead out of the main palace buildings and into the barracks. He knew they were barracks in his very bones, the soldier part of him felt slightly at ease. He followed his guide all the way to the practise yards.

"You would be O'Neill?"

The speaker was a grim faced, steely haired man. Stocky and slightly accented O'Neill had the strong sensation of being inspected. He stood to attention. "Yes sir."

"What can you do,?"

"Sir?"

"Can you fight with your hands? With a knife? Handle a weapon?"

"Yes sir."

"Prove it." The words were thrown at him, almost cruelly. O'Neill felt very old as a chilly wind whipped around him.

"How?"

"Ilayus! Marc!"the commander called. Two young soldiers approached cautiously from where they had been watching proceedings inside. "These two young men are some of the best in hand-to-hand combat in these barracks. Ilayus is almost as tall as you. Will you fight him?"

O'Neill looked Ilayus over. The man returned his gaze evenly as O'Neill noted with dismay the swell of the young man's muscles. He was broader than O'Neill, athletic, with no silver in his hair or lines around his eyes. O'Neill's leg was still aching terribly and blood was still dried around his nose. However, meeting briefly the eyes of the commander he was bright enough to realise the question was not a question.

*This is stupid. I'm going to get seven kinds of crap beaten out of me.*

He nodded.

Ilayus grinned, beginning to stretch. O'Neill followed suite. He taught hand-to-hand combat to recruits, sure enough. He was one of the most highly qualified combatants in the SGC when it came to fighting bare fisted. But it was not a skill he practised nearly as often as his marksmanship. He was the wrong side of fifty, with stiffness in his knees and he was injured. Not a good condition in which to enter a fight against a man nearly as tall and certainly more broad than he.

"Are you prepared?"

"I am," answered Ilayus and O'Neill realised with a heavy heart his time was up. He took up a guard position, on the tips of his toes as the commander whistled to signal the start of the bout.

Ilayus struck immediately and O'Neill staggered with the force of the blow, his injured leg almost buckling. He retaliated, and Ilayus blocked his punch easily, still grinning.

The smile reminded O'Neill strongly of someone. He moved backwards across the packed dirt of the practise yard, dodging another swift punch and catching the next with a deft lower block.

Ilayus kicked out and O'Neill caught his leg. He was still grinning.

Grant, O'Neill realised suddenly, Ilayus's grin reminded him of Grant's.

O'Neill forced the leg upwards, sending the man sprawling backwards into the dirt. Ilayus rolled immediately but O'Neill was ready for this and kicked out himself, sending the man spinning back down. O'Neill put his boot on Ilayus's chest before the man could get up. His shoulder blades were soaked with sweat, his breathing harsh.

"I yield," Ilayus said sullenly and O'Neill let him stand. The commander was looking at him with respect in his hard eyes. 

"You'll do, O'Neill," he said, "The Masters are right, as always. You are a soldier."


	7. Rest and Play

O'Neill held his head in his hands and groaned. He was speckled with bruises and his legs ached from the long walk home. He didn't even have the energy to try and fill the black kettle, and make some sort of hot drink. His entire body throbbed with a raw exhaustion.

The door creaked open to admit a sweat-streaked, muddy Sam Carter. She wiped her forehead leaving a streak of dark mud. "God. I'm tired."

O'Neill forced his eyes open, desperately trying to will some energy into his limbs. 'Well?' he rasped, "What happened?"

Carter sat down hard, wincing. "I tried to fix the 'Gate."

"Can you fix it?" he asked, anxiously, in his tired state unable to hide the concern in his eyes.

Carter met the eyes, bright underneath his dark eyebrows and felt the terrible sickening guilt rise in her throat. She dropped her gaze to the floor. "I can't fix it sir," she said, voice thick with held back tears, 'The DHD is smashed to hell. Even if I can reassemble the crystals, which is doubtful as it looks like half of them are missing, there's still got to be a power-source to link to the 'Gate..." She stopped, unable to continue.

O'Neill, tired as he was, was still a commander. He dragged his chair closer to Carter's and gripped her shoulders firmly. "Stop it," he said. She was still unable to meet his eyes. "You'll fix it."

She looked up, suddenly blazing mad. "Sir, I can't! This isn't a question of giving me some good soldier pep talk and then I'll pull some brilliant solution out of my ass! It's like trying to fill a well with a sieve!!" She tore away from his grip.

"Carter!" O'Neill snapped, "For cryin' out loud! We might be on an alien planet and it might not be the best of situations but you are a Major in the United States Air Force, I am your commanding officer and you had DAMN WELL BETTER START ACTING LIKE IT!!"

Carter blinked, giving him stare for stare for one long, hot moment. 

"I'm sorry sir," she muttered, voice as small as she felt.

O'Neill shook his aching head. "It's bad of me to shout," he said, "I know this is hard on you, being away from you fiance and all." He picked up the kettle and slipped outside.

Carter hit the wall hard, fighting not to let the tears threatening to overspill from her burning eyes fall. "What am I *doing?*" she asked, sinking to her knees. "I should have followed his orders, that's what I should have done. Gone with Daniel and Teal'c. I'd be with Grant now. Is that what I want?"

She didn't know. Every time she thought of the handsome lawyer her stomach twisted with guilt. 

O'Neill returned a put the kettle to boil. "I'll make dinner," he informed her and she nodded.

"I'm sorry sir," she began but he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"It's done Carter. Don't sweat it." There was something of the old kindness in his eyes once more and Carter's stomach twisted itself into another knot. 

*

The following day brought more of the same, and the two soldiers fell into an uneasiness; a careful relationship of little eye contact and pleasantries skirting round the real issues of their days. Carter could not help but notice the bruises on his body when they rose in the mornings, just as he could not fail to notice the gradual weariness overcoming her, her normally brilliant blue eyes dull and shoulders hunching with misery. Events could not continue as they remained, and yet nothing seemed able to break the spell of careful military politeness that they had fallen under.

Five days passed in such a manner, and their two days of assigned labour began. Instead of the palace they instead journeyed to the small village. The atmosphere there could not have been more surprising. The streets were thronged with people, smiling, happy people; people talking, laughing, children playing in between the forest of legs. O'Neill's hand rested lightly on Carter's arm, fearful they should lose each other in the seething mass of people.

"Ah! O'Neill and Carter!" It was the young doctor. "Don't worry! You will not be assigned anything too strenuous. You've worked well, or so the masters say. Three days of rest will be yours after tomorrow."

O'Neill felt Carter visibly sagged with relief. "What will we be doing for the next two days?"

"Basic tasks, nothing strenuous. Do not worry!"

Carter exchanged a look with O'Neill; the first in several days. They followed the general movement of people along the street. At the end of the row was the man who had first visited O'Neill and Carter, dressed in the same shabby black. 

He gave them a cursory sweep with his eyes. "Um. You will work in the fields. Together if you wish. Harvesting the crops." He nodded to a man on his left, unknown to the soldiers, but they were growing used to following unnamed people by now and followed him wordlessly.

Harvesting transpired to be exactly that, a sickle, the rippling waves of corn; cutting it ruthlessly whilst the workers chatted and shouted happily to one another under the cold sky. It wasn't extremely physical work and the team nature of the men and women harvesting meant that those who were unable to work at full capacity were allowed to rest more regularly.

Carter found that the almost mechanical repetition of the same movement, cutting with the sickle, vaguely comforting. It was certainly easier than the physically and mentally demanding task of trying to fix the Stargate every day. O'Neill watched her work out of the corner of his eye, his aching muscles not enjoying the iterative movement.

They broke for lunch under a tree in the field. Fresh bread and soft cheese with flasks of wine and beer made for a much more pleasant meal than the two soldiers had become used to. O'Neill lay on the cut grass around the tree and stared at the sky. It was too cold to pretend it was summer, but there was something agreeable about it all the same. The scent of the grass filled his senses. He started to hum under his breath.

It was a grass stained, dusty couple that returned to their home to bathe, yelping, in icy cold water from the well. They ate bread for their tea, torn from a rustic loaf presented to them from the workers they had harvested with in the day, too tired for conversation. 

Carter's thoughts as they lay on their foul mattresses turned once again to Grant that night. O'Neill's even breathing as he lay close, and yet far away, asleep, provided a gentle background to her guilty speculation. 

She wasn't sure when she fell asleep, only that she was suddenly blinking awake as strong hands held her shoulders. "Carter." His voice was slurred with tiredness, as she squinted to see his face.

"Sir?"

"You were shouting. In your sleep."

"Oh." She blushed, thankful that the darkness rendered the red flush invisible. "Sorry sir."

"Not a problem."

He was very close, in exhaustion allowing himself to almost rest his forehead on hers. "What was I shouting about?"

She could feel his breath on her face and her insides seemed to contract. His hands suddenly released her shoulders and he rolled away, taking the warmth of his body with him. She shivered as he replied. "Grant."

He turned away from her, leaving her feeling worse than she had before she had settled down to sleep.

*

The next day passed in a similar manner to the previous, and their three days of rest began. Invited to the village that evening neither of them was ashamed to admit that they spent most of the time up to their departure asleep. 

A depressive silent gloom had settled on them like the frost that continually mugged the few leaves in the lane from the hedgerows, and yet they could not walk apart from each other. Carter could not bring herself to say anything to break the tension, and O'Neill was in too filthy a temper to even consider doing so. Even here on an alien planet the wedge that Grant had driven between them remained strong; it was, Carter mused, as if she had betrayed O'Neill. She felt the guilt for beginning her affair with Grant as well as the guilt for choosing O'Neill over her fiance when he had been about to die. O'Neill felt guilt for still feeling for Carter what he was not supposed to, and anger.

The village was flooded with people again, a huge bonfire burning in the centre of the main square and a band set up on a large rostra. O'Neill could hear the gentle strumming of a guitarist tuning up over the noise of the crowd. 

People that they had been introduced to over the past two days found them in the mass of people. There was Jun, a physicist once upon a time who now worked on an undisclosed project in the Palace; his wife Augusta who was an agricultural worker. O'Neill had befriended a young man called Undred who immediately ushered him away towards the bonfire, where an unidentified animal was being roasted to the point of caramelisation.

O'Neill burnt his fingers trying to ingest some of the roast whilst Carter chatted happily to Jun. 

After the roast was consumed and the raucous folk music dying down fireworks flashed across the sky. By this point O'Neill and Carter had found one another again, more relaxed after their time apart and several measures of ale. O'Neill smiled at Carter for the first time in over a week and she felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease as she smiled back.

O'Neill looked into her brilliant blue eyes, shining with their old mirth and swallowed. "We'll get out of here," he said, taking her hand. "I'll get you back to Grant in one piece."

Her smile faded slightly, her eyes losing their warmth. "I'll do my best sir."

There was an explosion overhead of red and green, an appreciative 'aahh' from the crowd. Carter relaxed again, O'Neill still lightly holding her hand and let the sounds of hundreds of people being merry take her and carry her away from her own concerns and miseries.


	8. Cold Snap

She lay, asleep in his arms, so close he could feel the beat of her heart against his own chest. Her breath stirred the tiny hairs on his neck and caused their counterparts down his spine to stand on end and tingle unbearably. She opened one blue eye, teasing, knowing that effect she was having on him with so little action on her part.

He kissed her, if only to stop her smiling so devilishly and she responded hungrily, her hands moving over his tingling spine; sliding inexorably towards his-- 

--O'Neill awoke, streaked with sweat, breathing heavily and extremely thankful that the subject of his dream remained asleep, close enough to him for the warmth of her body to be palpable all along the right side of his. 

In situations like this back on Earth he'd have hastily taken a cold shower; here he simply walked outside into the freezing air to achieve the effect of diminishing the stark obviousness of his arousal. 

Running a hand through his hair, longer than he liked to keep it but in a slightly softer condition now he only washed it with cold water rather than shampoo, he tried to concentrate on the stars rather than... anything else... and tried simultaneously to shed the feeling of guilt.

Tensions between him and Carter were far less strained certainly, and she reported some limited progress with her repair-work. He was adapting to life here, and felt fitter than he had for months with the extreme workouts required of him. Weight lifting here was not a precise art and was mostly driven by a macho desire to outlast the competition. Whilst it resulted in a lot of pulled muscles, it was doing wonders for the oft under-exercised muscles he tended not to favour in the gym.

It was no use. He could sleep no more this night, so instead he washed in literally icy cold water, he had to break the film of ice on the butt outside he had 'obtained,' not wanting to wake Carter by using the washstand. He dressed and began boiling the kettle. 

Carter awoke nearly an hour later to be served a steaming mug of hot liquid by her CO. "Did I oversleep?" she murmured, voice cracked with tiredness and possessing an often unheard vulnerability that made O'Neill smile involuntarily.

"No. I just woke up early."

She smiled too. "Wake up early more. I could get used to this treatment."

"Yeah, well," he replied, suddenly gruff as she smiled at him dazzlingly, reminiscent of his dream.

She drained the mug and stood. "Just going..." she grimaced, gesturing to the privy. O'Neill drank down his own mug.

"Oh!"

"What?" he asked, standing quickly in response to her cry.

"It's snowing."

The white flakes were falling thick and fast outside, their garden already covered with a thin icing of white snow.

"So..." O'Neill said, "You reckon the worms'll give us a snow day?"

Carter couldn't quite surpress a laugh. "I don't know."

*

The walk to the village was brisk in the cold, Carter shivering uncontrollably, her clothes unsuited to the weather. The snow already lay thickly on the road into the village, unspoilt by footprints. Carter trod in O'Neill's prints in an attempt not to sink up to her ankles in snow. Her teeth chattered involuntarily as the icy wind knifed through her normal working clothes and the horrible sackcloth robe she had thrown over the top. Fresh snow settled on her hair and face, blinding her momentarily when it stuck in her eyelashes before melting away. Her fingers were curling automatically with the chill, the same rosy red as her nose and cheeks.

Footprints, already nearly erased by the flakes still falling, headed towards the village along the track as they passed their neighbour's houses. O'Neill himself fell into following them to try and move faster.

By the time they had reached the village both Carter and O'Neill had lost feeling in their hands and feet. No one was visible and O'Neill began to rue their stupidity at braving the weather in fear of punishment for lost hours. Carter was becoming more and more convinced the footprints they had followed were actually heading in the direction opposite to which they had come. In any case the village's public buildings for wont of a better expression were locked. Turning back towards home the sky darkened before them, clouds heavy with snow. 

As thicker flakes began to descend; soft and floating, oddly silent death should they not find shelter soon, O'Neill caught hold of Carter's hand. "This was a bad idea!" he shouted over the howl of the wind, the snow taking the sound and deadening it.

"I know!"

"I can't feel my feet!"

Her reply was lost in a gust of driving snow and he let go of her hand in order to press forward. The cold was making him torpid and curiously detached from the grim reality of their stupidity. 

He knew they were only feet away from home, invisible to them in what was now a fully fledged snowstorm, when Carter stumbled, falling to her knees.

She murmured something unintelligible, her face so cold her words were slurred as if she were drunk, and O'Neill knew his own words were as indiscernible. He hauled her back upright with arms that felt as if they were made of lead, lurched onwards a few more feet; their arms wrapped around each other and yet so cold they were unable even to feel the contact between them, and fell against their front door. Somehow Carter managed to manipulate the handle and they sunk inside. Collapsed on the floor and both breathing as if they had just given birth, O'Neill kicked the door shut. 

The inside of their cabin was itself very cold, but after the temperatures endured outside it felt considerably warmer. They clung to each other, shivering so violently they felt physically sick. Eventually enough warmth returned to Carter to extricate herself from his trembling embrace and she staggered over to the fireplace. Her hands were still too cold to uncurl but she managed to ignite the fire with a *whumph* and gratefully held her hands over it, relishing the fierce heat. O'Neill pulled of his boots and socks, both sopping wet and pulled the dining chair over to the fire, sitting with his feet almost in the cinders. 

"Let's never, ever do that again," she said, following suite.

Ever practical, O'Neill had something else on his mind. "We don't have that much fire wood," he stated bluntly.

"There's a far bit outside on the woodpile. We can bring it in and dry it off next to the fire before we put it on sir," she replied, closing her eyes with exhaustion.

"Hmm," he replied. "I'm going to get out of these wet clothes. Don't look," he added, almost slyly.

"I never do," she replied, glad that events were such that once more they could joke about such things.

She studied the wall minutely until he coughed, signalling he was done.

She turned and tried not to let the breath catch in her throat at the site of his shirtless torso, every muscle defined to a degree it looked as if it were carved in stone; the fierce training and low fat diet forced upon him by their circumstances strengthening his already hardy physique. 

She forced her eyes to his face and a glimmer of mirth touched his mouth and escaped from his eyes, causing her to blush as she realised he was in doubt as to where her roving gaze had briefly rested. He pulled on his shirt.

"Don't *you* look," she said coyly. 

Dressing quickly she hurried back to the circle of warmth radiated by the fire.

They were both dozing when a sharp knock at the door roused them. "Coming!" yelled O'Neill after a moment. 

The caller was a vaguely recognised organiser, the woman who normally held the clipboard and told them what their assigned tasks were.

"The snows have come earlier than we expected," she explained, shaking the stuff off her snowshoes and brushing some flakes off her furry outer layers. "We would have provided you with these earlier had we known..."

She slung the large bag she carried over her shoulder to the floor. It clattered slightly.

"Snow shoes, furs and better boots," she explained. "You don't have to go down the village for you assigned tasks whilst the weather is bad but normal work continues. You must limit your firewood!" she added urgently, seeing their banked fire, "It may be some time until more will be available. Don't worry about food, there'll be deliveries soon enough. Soon as I've organised them in fact. Any questions, you know where I live!" She laughed; at what O'Neill wasn't sure.

After seeing her out he growled slightly. "I really hate that woman."

"We better let the fire burn down," Carter said sadly.

*

The snow had continued to fall all day, stopping briefly in the early evening as the sky cleared. The temperature had plummeted even further as a result and even dressed in their new furs and sitting close to their now smaller fire the two soldiers were shivering once more with cold. 

O'Neill moved their mattresses close to the flickering flames as the moon rose, pale in the sky pin-pricked with tiny white points of light. The wind was howling mournfully outside.

"I'm going to bed," O'Neill said, voice cracked with tiredness. "G'Night Carter."

"I think I'll join you sir," she replied and he smiled slightly at her choice of words.

Carter faced towards the fire, trying to snuggle down inside her furs but it was impossible to be warm lying on a draughty floor with temperatures outside seemingly becoming glacial. Her teeth started to chatter again.

"Carter?" 

"Yes?"

"You cold?"

"Freezing sir."

He paused. "Come here."

She shuffled closer and he threw his furs and cover around herself , pulling her close. She in turn did the same. 

"Warmer?" he asked as she tucked her head under his chin, his voice noticeably strained.

She tried not to squeak as she answered. "Yes thank you sir."

"Good. Me too. Get some sleep."

"Night."

"Night."


	9. Revelations

It was hard to believe outside the temperature was several degrees below freezing. Here in the caves, buried in the guts of a DHD, sweat was dripping down her nose. Her furs had long been discarded to the floor next to her snow shoes and as she wiped away a bead of perspiration she left an oily smear on her forehead.

Her head snapped round at a noise, apparently emanating from the cave wall to her right. Her hand moved unbidden to grasp the handle of a metal chisel that had, as yet, served no useful purpose. It might be about to prove its worth. She hefted in her hand, weighing it thoughtfully. 

The noise became steadily louder and less muffled with every passing moment. It sounded very much like someone pickaxing their way through solid rock. 

It transpired to be exactly that. The sharp edge of a metal tool suddenly came through the wall, preceded by a column of rolling dust.

"Hello?" Carter called as the pickaxe struck again, causing a crumbling hole to appear in the tunnel wall.

"Adrada! Adrada!" someone called from the other side. Other voices joined in. The hole was widened by another blow from the pickaxe and through it stepped a man, naked from the waist up and wielding the pick axe.

"Hey there," Carter said, smiling. "Guess you guys took a wrong turn somewhere..." She backed away slightly, keeping behind the DHD. Perhaps sensing her discomfort, the miner put down the pick axe, saying something in a language she could not understand. His companions, another shirtless man of about the same stature and a much younger boy wearing a headscarf of some description followed him into the cave. All of them were streaked with dirt and they all tried to speak at once in an alien language.

"I can't understand you," Carter said shaking her head. The youngest miner was staring at the plate that contained her as yet uneaten lunch, brought to her nearly two hours ago and forgotten in her drive to fix a particular crystal in the DHD.

Skin and bone, Carter thought and nodded to him as he gingerly picked up the wedge of bread and cheese as if it might explode.

He took a bite and gave a yell of pleasure, shouting to his companions who jabbered excitedly. He tore chunks off the bread to share with them and they gobbled them hungrily.

"Adas, adas!" they said, after they had eaten, taking her hand and speaking fervently.

"Glad you like it," she said. 

The youngest miner pointed to the tunnel mouth and said something to his companions, whose looks of rapturous joy faded suddenly. They spoke tersely amongst themselves for a moment, their nervousness palpable in their glances and even more rapid speech.

"What's spooked you guys?" she asked, knowing it was pointless. 

They merely stared at her for a moment before continuing their conversation. 

A sudden rumbling, one which Carter was quite used to now after working in the tunnels for a few months, shook the cave and more motes of dust streamed earthwards. 

The miners shouted and screamed, clearly terrified. "Adas! Adas! Hirunja ne Podani!"

They ran for the tunnel they had dug, calling over their shoulders. Carter knew the rumbling was caused by the movement of the worms and remained unperturbed. The booming stopped and she returned to work until the sound of mis-matched approaching footsteps made her look again.

It was her one-legged guide who often bought her lunch or came to check on her progress, the man who informed her always when her hours of work were completed. 

"You must come with me," he said, face and voice unusually taut.

"Why?" she asked, confused, putting down her tools, "I-" 

"You MUST come with me,"he repeated, more sharply.

"Okay, okay..." She moved to gather her furs.

"Leave them."

He led her away from the broken Stargate and to the Palace, through a maze of corridors she had never walked before. A door opened before them and she was guided to a chair. The doors snapped shut behind her guide with an ominous clang and she was alone in a small room. 

Opposite her was a worn wooden desk, cluttered with scraps of parchment and a small, black box. Unmarked, the only distinctive feature on its obsidian surface was a single metal switch. There was a worn leather chair behind the desk, pulled back as if someone had only recently stood to leave the room and had forgotten to push it back under. 

She shifted uncomfortably in her own seat, wondering who or what she was waiting for, what transgression she had committed to wind up here. Presumably it had something to do with the miners, but she could not imagine what. 

Her stomach lurched sickly as she realised suddenly her chair had leather thongs wrapped around the arms and back, presumably to restrain the person seated. Every nerve tingling with suppressed fear she jumped, heart climbing into her mouth, as the doors opened again behind her.

She turned to see who had entered and her arms were grabbed by two burly men, dressed in the green uniforms she herself wore. Someone seized her hair and roughly jerked her head back. She bit her lip in an effort not to scream out loud and felt the leather thongs slide over her forehead, wrists and ankles.

The men stepped away as soon as their task was completed, dismissed by a third man, the hair-puller. He was dressed entirely in slightly shabby robes of faded black. His close cropped hair and general attire reminded her strongly of the man who had first come to visit herself and O'Neill when they had arrived on this planet.

This man was younger however, his face unlined and the stubbly hair on his head was a muddy brown. He sat at the desk.

"Major Carter. I believe that's what most people call you in these sort of situations? " He didn't wait for conformation. "I expect you're wondering why you're here. You have, we have observed, a mind full of questions; hidden under a veneer of learned obedience. I'm going to answer some of those questions because the Masters wish you to be productive, I think I should make it quite clear that were it left to me you would have been sentenced to death upon arrival. Your curiosity and intellect are dangerous, not to mention disturbing to the repose of our Masters when you work in their tunnels. However, it has been judged that your ultimate purpose outweighs the risks of keeping you here, and that in order for you to work to a maximum capacity you insatiable curiosity has to be curbed."

He was obviously used to hearing the sound of his own voice, his tone bored and almost disinterested. 

"As you have no doubt guessed the arrival of those miners is the indirect reason for our... little talk. Put them out of your mind for a moment. Ask some of the questions I know plague you."

Carter regarded him stonily for a moment, sitting cross legged and gazing at her sternly over steepled fingers. Her eyes flickered briefly towards the box as he shifted slightly in his seat. He read her glance correctly.

"Ah. You want to know what the box does. Allow me to demonstrate."

There was a savage sort of smile playing around his lips as he spoke. He flicked the gleaming switch.

Pain seemed to burst in Carter's head, flooding along every nerve and she screamed aloud. She surged forward, the restraints keeping her firmly fixed in the chair.

The ashrak! The ashrak was killing her, the pain beyond endurance! Every fibre of her body screamed for an end, for her to black out, die even and sto- 

The man flicked the switch back over and through a haze of tears Carter saw him once more, the memory replaced by her current surroundings.

"This device establishes neural contact just like the mind of our Masters. It seeks memories repressed for some reason, inevitably ones of pain, torture. Negative emotions. Ask me a question, or I shall use it again."

Carter, fighting to hold onto the contents of her stomach made no sound, sagging against her restraints.

The man shuffled some parchment. "I am a bureaucrat. The bureaucracy is the organisational body of this planet. You have been wondering, so the Masters have read in your mind, about some of the paradoxes in our society. Why, for example is there such excellent medical care when housing, sanitation and crop production is so basic? Why, when on the transport ship you came here aboard there numbered hundreds of captives, have you never seen more than approximately three hundred people at a time?"

Carter nodded.

"The bureaucracy have meticulously calculated the needs of every human on this planet and have tailored our entire environment to fit. The housing is the minimal required to maintain a healthy population, and also well within the abilities of our construction workers to build. They require a specific amount of material we can afford to spare. Every paradox is explainable in this manner."

"The houses aren't fit to live in. They're draughty, cold and miserable," Carter spat, the rage burning inside her aching body bubbling out.

The bureaucrat laughed. "The materials are available to you to improve your home. You and your co-habitant have the necessary skills to make it more habitable. Yet you persist in thinking of it as a temporary home; a cell. You refuse to begin the process of making it your own, imprinting your frankly unstable personality onto the walls."

"Go to Hell," Carter muttered, electing another braying laugh from the man.

"You still persist in thinking you can escape from a labour camp that has been in operation for hundreds of years. I find your arrogance laughable. This planet has been operating under the rule of the bureaucracy for time out of mind."

"If you've got me here to answer my questions than answer them," Carter returned quietly, voice full of a cold hate, "Where do you draw your population base from? Why bother?"

"We draw our population from three planets. One is in terms of soil fertility and materials available extremely similar to our own. Its' inhabitants possess the necessary skills to cultivate the land to a degree where the feeding of our population is possible, with aid from manual workers. Not all of those harvested are suitable for the role of farmer. Some become minor members of the bureaucracy. They are aware of our presence, which is more than most of this planet's inhabitants ever achieve, and they perform minor organisational tasks. At such a level truly regimented control of resources is lacking, but supplies are plentiful due to our careful planning and a certain degree of leniency is allowable when it comes to not exceeding particular quotas.

"The second planet is far more technically advanced. Its' inhabitants have sophisticated defence and evacuation procedures and our harvest here is not bountiful. The few we do manage to capture serve more technical roles in our society. Engineering, calculating, improving our starship designs. Some become bureaucrats. 

"The third planet is nothing more than a wasteland inhabited by primitive tribes of witless, wandering nomads. The many people we draw from there serve as miners of raw materials for the construction of buildings like this Palace, or the starships. Some tend to the egg-beds of our masters. They are quite literally worked to death. A steady supply of such workers is required."

"Worked to death? Surely that's counter-productive?"

"Contrarily, it is far easier and cheaper in resources to pilot a ship to the required destination and capture them than it is to feed, clothe and house them adequately enough to allow a breeding colony of suitable size."

"Is that why you have bought me here? Because I have learnt of their existence?"

"No. It was inevitable you would. Your crime is far more simple. You allowed them your food."

"That boy was starving!" she hissed through clenched teeth.

"Yes. But the food those men receive is laced with a drug that represses their emotional responses and sexual drive. It increases their productivity during their short life-spans. Yours however, is not. Those who work above ground are free to breed as they choose and are generally able to perform their tasks to the necessary degree without the need for such measures. Conditions such as pregnancy do not hinder your far less physical work."

"So basically you've bought me here to tell me that every little anomaly I spot is due your higher order design for the people of this planet, amongst whom few know you even exist, who's lives you have planned out in almost every detail? And you've told me this because you think it'll make me work harder?" she said, incredulous.

"Yes."

"Why do you bother?"

"It is the will of the Masters."

"But you control everything. I'm presuming the egg-beds are their breeding colonies. If you even maintain their young then what stops you from rising up against them?" 

"Why would I wish to?" he replied, for the first time seeming genuinely surprised at her response. "I have everything I desire for the simple task of some statistical interpretation and organisation. Even if we rose against the Masters and won, despite the terrible bloodshed they would cause, what would I have? Nothing more than I have now. Maybe less."

"You mean the resource rules don't apply to you and you would rather sit in comfort and condemn thousands of people to death and slavery," Carter snarled.

"That's a negative way of looking at it," he scoffed.

Carter pulled against her restraints violently. "Let me out of here, I've heard all I need to. And you mere presence is nauseating."

The bureaucrat laughed again. "Let you out? You might tell others of the bureaucracy. And there is the matter of punishment for your crime."

Carter's blood ran cold. "I-" 

He flicked the switch. Above her agonised screams he spoke, calmly and with no trace of the pleasure palpable in his eyes. "You will not speak of this to anyone other than your co-habitant. It will save me the irritation of repeating this process."

He switched the machine off again as Carter retched. "Alright," she managed, voice thick with pain and spitting blood onto the floor, from where she had bitten her tongue. "I will."

"Not yet. You have not received the pre-determined duration of punishment for your crime."

Carter gave a choked sob. "How-?" she half spoke-half mouthed.

"How long?" he said, smiling now his face full of malice . "It matters not. Only to you will it seem like an eternity."

He flicked the switch.


	10. Training

Jack O'Neill sat alone in the draughty cabin, the snow outside falling thickly again. During the day a team of workers had laboured to clear the track from Palace to village. It seemed as if their efforts were going to be wasted. 

Carter was late back. More than late. All day he'd been wrestling with the remembrance of her asleep in his arms, barely able to think of anything else. And now she was very late back from the Palace. He ran a hand through his hair unthinkingly. He blew his cheeks up, hissing the air through his lips as he was wont to. He sighed with frustration at the his buzzing mind, full of thoughts all related to a single topic.

Carter. 

He groaned, resting his head in his hands. "C'mon Carter. This is torturous. Anything you've got to say to me is better than just letting me sit here and stew, imagining what it could be."

As if in mocking response to his plea there was a knock at the door. He leapt up and fumbled it open.

In the swirling snow stood Carter, supported by the doctor who had once examined his leg. 

"Christ," he murmured, catching the Major as she slumped forward as soon as the doctor unslung her arm from around her shoulders. He scooped her up in strong arms, knees trembling a little from her weight but holding her steady. "What happened to her?" His voice shook with barely repressed rage, and fear.

"She was punished. For what I don't know. I can fetch someone to help but if I do... well, you will be sworn to secrecy, understand? No going back."

O'Neill nodded his assent, more concerned with the well being of his 2IC.

"I shall fetch her. Until I return you must keep her warm and conscious."

He nodded again and kicked the door shut as the doctor disappeared back into the snowstorm. He gently deposited Carter on their bed, smoothing her wet hair down and gingerly touching the black-blue smudge that ran in a neat line across her forehead. Her wrists and ankles were chafed and bleeding, her lips crusted with dried blood. More blood frothed with every breath at the corners of her mouth, and her bloodshot eyes were wide and staring.

"Can you hear me Carter?" he said, touching her cheek with gentle fingers as he pulled off her outer layer of fur.

Her lips mouthed soundlessly. 

"I thought you were avoiding me," he said, unable to think of anything else and knowing talking was the only way to keep her in the waking world. "I never thought you might be..."

He broke off, finding her hands with his and gripping her cold fingers. "S-s..r," she murmured.

"I'm here Carter. You've just gotta hold on."

"Cold," she replied, eyes rolling. 

He hugged her impulsively, trying to massage some warmth into her shoulders. "Don't even think about passing out on me. You got that soldier?" He tried to inject an element of his old drill sergeant into his voice, but he was betrayed by his fear.

"Jack?" Her voice was faint, carried on a choking breath. 

"Sam?" he quavered, fearing what the use of his first name could mean.

"Don't let me go."

He buried his face in her hair, holding her as tightly as he dared. "I would never..."

There was a sharp knock on the door again. O'Neill sprang up to answer it.

The doctor had returned, bringing with her an elderly lady, rotund in layers of matted fur. She kicked off her snowshoes and hurried over to Carter without a word spoken.

"What is her name?" she said suddenly in a clear and ageless voice.

"Uh, Samantha," O'Neill said, then corrected himself. "Sam."

The woman took Carter's face in her hands, forcing her to make eye contact. "Listen to my voice Sam," she said in the same even, powerful tone. Not looking away from Carter's bruised face she added. "You, man. Come here." 

O'Neill did as he was instructed, kneeling next to the woman. "What?"

"Take my hand. When I squeeze, pull me away."

The woman gave her hand to O'Neill and closed her eyes, Carter copying the movement. O'Neill could *feel* a raw kind of power crackling in the cool air. All the tiny hairs on his body stood on end. 

The woman squeezed his hand, so hard he winced. He pulled her gently and her eyes opened once more, pain etched on her face. Carter's eyes remained closed.

"Thank you Jack O'Neill," the woman said, standing up.

"How do you know my name?" he asked suspiciously, unwilling to stand up and leave Carter's side. Her breathing was more regular now. Reassured he glanced away. The woman was smiling, benevolent.

"She told me."

"Who, Carter?" he asked, feeling stupid even as he said it.

"Yes." She regarded him quizzically for a moment then added in an undertone inaudible to the doctor. "She would like you to know, I think, that she loves you very much."

"I... uh..."

"She would die for you." She gave him a penetrating stare. "And of course, you would for her."

"Look, just... who are you? And what's happened to her?" he said quickly, feeling colour rise in his cheeks and the faint squirm of shame in the pit of his stomach.

"My name is Harpala. I am a Seer."

"A what?" O'Neill responded, face openly displaying his frustrated confusion.

"Like what the Masters do," supplied the Doctor, "Only for good."

O'Neill raised an eyebrow, not quite willing to vocalise his disbelief. "Oh. Right."

Harpala's eyes turned once more to the sleeping woman, full of concern. "The bureaucrats have tortured her badly. Her mind was already full of concern, pain, guilt. She was not able to withstand the burnt of a full scale mental assault. No one in her position could. She is lucky to even be alive, yet alone to have kept her mind intact. A strong lady. I can see why you like her."

"Ah-ah!" O'Neill responded, cutting her off, "Bureaucrats? Torture? Why's she been tortured?"

Harpala studied him for a moment. "She'll want to tell you when she wakes. It's not my place to, and it will help her mind to heal. She's been sent inside her own head, reliving memories. Terrible memories. I've shown her the way back and she will come home to you. When she wakes, comfort her."

O'Neill sighed, knowing that no amount of repetition was going to allow him to understand what was going on. "Alright."

Harpala nodded. "Don't worry Jack. I promise that everything will start making sense soon."

She headed towards the door, nodding to the doctor.

"Who is she?" O'Neill asked the woman.

"Harpala is our greatest weapon, and the best kept secret of the rebellion against the Masters."

"What the...? Rebellion?"

"A cause to which you have now pledged your allegiance having met Harpala."

"Oh God," O'Neill replied, covering his eyes with his hand.

"I will leave you now. I will make sure you are not expected at work tomorrow. She will need your care."

"Thanks," he muttered as she let herself out. He took Carter's hand again. "Well Major, this is just peachy. I feel like I'm stuck in.... the Matrix or something... people talking about rebellions and Seers... and a whole bunch of other stuff not making any damn sense."

Carter sighed in her sleep, snuggling against his knees. He pulled the furs over her.

"You better have a damn good explanation for all this in the morning," he said to her sleeping head. There was no reply. He sighed and slid under the furs to lie next to her; like it or no the only way to keep warm was to share body heat. "G'Night Carter."

*

He awoke early the next morning, an untraceable pain in his chest forcing him from slumber. As he blinked awake the source became known to him; Carter was gripping the collar of his jacket so tightly she had pinched some of the skin underneath it. He tried to extricate himself without waking her up. Her grip lessened slightly but she would not let go of his jacket.

O'Neill lay still for a long while, simply watching her breathing and ignoring the growing pressure from his bladder to get up and disturb her rest. She stirred a few times, mumbling as if she were about to wake but never opened her eyes.

Eventually, just before his bladder actually exploded, she awoke.

"Sir?" she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

"I'm here Carter... just... give me five seconds..." He hurried off in the direction of the outhouse.

He returned, the pained look on his face replaced with one of concern. "How're you feeling?"

She smiled slightly crookedly. "Pretty bad."

"That woman, Harpala. She said you'd want to talk," he replied gently.

She nodded and then winced at the movement. "Yeah. Just not right now."

"You want a drink or something?"

"Yeah, that'd be good," she said, trying to inject some emotion into her voice.

O'Neill's eyes were brimming with a poorly disguised concern and she dared not meet them, not thinking she could face the hazel brown pools awash with a sympathetic kindness; pity even. He stared at her for a moment and then moved away to make some tea.

"A watched pot never boils," Carter said, half-amused after a few moments.

"My grandmother used to say that," O'Neill said, dragging his eyes away from the kettle. She met his eyes and looked away at once, somehow afraid at what she saw reflected in them. "You wanna try explaining now?"

She nodded again. "What do you need to know sir?"

"Everything," he replied, folding his arms.

"Didn't Harpala explain anything?"

"Oh yeah. Just not in a way I could understand."

Carter smiled. "Well it's a long story..."

"I've got plenty of time to listen."

*

She studied his face carefully, his frown indicating the somewhat erratic internal process of filing all the new information. "So..." he said slowly, "Basically this whole planet, the whole shebang, is run by a secret organisation called the bureaucracy, who noone knows about unless they're part of it, and Harpala is the leader of a rebellion against them."

"Yes sir."

"What's so special about her...? I mean she said some pretty weird stuff when she was here and I thought-- "

"She's a Seer. From the third planet. She's... kind of got the same sort of powers as the worms..." she said, trying to phrase the information so that O'Neill could understand it.

"Right. So that's how you told her my name?"

"Yes."

"And that's why she knew a whole load of... other stuff..." He blushed slightly despite himself.

"Yes."

"This place just gets weirder by the day."

"I know sir." She shifted position slightly and flinched with the pain that squealed in her lower back.

O'Neill shook his head. Whatever powerful or mystical forces were possibly at work here (not that he generally believed in this kind of crap, but Carter apparently did) his duty was clear to him. Carter was injured, how badly he wasn't quite sure. She had been tortured and whatever the method had been it was sure to leave some mental scars as well as physical. O'Neill had spent quite a lot of his career not quite understanding the technicalities of a situation but knowing damn well the human consequences. He was in many respects a better soldier than Carter, not being overly encumbered with intelligence but having more than his fair share of common sense. This situation, however bizarre, was not different from ones he had faced before, not when it came down to it. 

*

Carter slept for most of the day, O'Neill plying her with food or drink whenever she awoke which she found difficult to keep down. The sun was presumably setting behind banks of grey cloud that promised yet more snow when there was a not-entirely-unexpected knock at the front door.

Harpala had returned with the doctor, smiling amiably. "Glad to see you awake Sam," she said, crinkling her eyes at the Major who was sitting, pale and bruised, on one of their chairs. Carter returned her smile.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" O'Neill said, for once without a trace of sarcasm.

"You have pledged your allegiance to the rebellion by learning of the existence of our secret weapon," the doctor said earnestly, "And as such Harpala is here to teach you the ability to prevent the Masters from reading the secret in your very brain."

"Sounds like a neat trick," O'Neill replied.

"It is skill very difficult to master," the doctor informed him sternly. Harpala laid a gnarled hand on her arm. "Some acquire the skill more easily than others. However, it requires an open mind to have any chance of success."

This comment appeared to be directed at O'Neill who had the decency to look away. "I shall begin with you Sam," Harpala continued, unworried. She sat opposite Carter at the table, and placed her hands palm up on the scored wooden surface. Carter did the same. 

"Close your eyes," Harpala instructed.

For the second time in as many days Carter heard the voice of the old woman in her head, bypassing her ears and seemingly being transmitted into her very brain. The principles of mental defence are simple. Application is the hard part. An intruder in your mind can never be insidious enough not to affect even the most psychically unreceptive, not if they enter your thoughts to the degree that they can read your secrets.

I understand.

Blocking their advances requires you to form a strong mental image, with enough root in reality to sustain the image for a given length of time. It has to be something that your mind can hold on to and withstand the force of an intruder trying to move through the image to what lies beneath. For you Samantha, I think that Jack O'Neill might be a worthwhile starting point.

Does it have to be a positive image?

Strength is key. But positive images are generally more suitable.

Okay... so I just, what? Picture something in my mind?

Try to visualise Jack, study every part of him. Remember something you did together or imagine something. I shall try to break through the image you create. Wait until you feel my presence in your mind before beginning.

Carter felt Harpala's presence leave her head and she opened her eyes. "Ready when you are."

For a moment nothing happened and then suddenly she felt the presence of Harpala behind her eyes, like an unscratchable itch. She tried to focus her thoughts on O'Neill, something positive.

She started with his hands. The long tapering fingers with neatly manicured nails had always impressed her. That a soldier should be so fastidious about the state of his fingernails was unusual and they were reliably short and clean; attached to brown fingers and strong hands. Callused palms like her own, the result of continually wielding a P90, working outdoors. He always wore those beads wrapped around his wrist, a present from a native on... oh, some planet they had visited nearly two years ago. They were red and marked the start of his forearms which...

She realised that she was alone in her head once more. She opened her eyes.

"Very good Sam! You are remarkably adept when it comes to the control of your mental processes." Harpala turned to Jack who had rolled his eyes. "You think you have not the mental discipline to achieve as well as Sam?"

"Carter's brain works a lot better than mine does."

"Perhaps," Harpala returned, the lie obvious in her eyes. 

O'Neill sighed and presented his hands as Carter had. He closed his eyes.

You are a cynic Jack. Is it so unbelievable that I can enter your mind. You who have seen wonders beyond the dreams of any mortal man?

Cut the mystic crap and teach me what I need to know, he replied bluntly. Hey, he added, almost defensively, If I can't be blunt inside my own head where can I be?

Nowhere, agreed the Seer. You must think of something that you can focus on so strongly that I cannot penetrate deep enough into your mind to read anything you do not want to be read.

A happy image?

A strong one. A happy one is probably better.

Right.

Wait until you feel my presence in your mind before beginning.

O'Neill opened his eyes, crossing his eyes and scowling across the table at Harpala. "Ready."

She studied him for a few moments, hoping to catch him off guard when she entered his brain. He was wily, and as soon as she entered she was confronted with the image of a boy, his curtained hair rippling as he ran towards his father. The man picked the boy up, whirling him around and around, proud.

The image changed suddenly, to a hospital ward, a bed. Machines bleeping obscenely tubes and everywhere the taint of blood. At the centre of the medical horror-show the same boy lay, pale as death on the pale green hospital sheets. The machine stopped bleeping, emitting instead one long, drawn out tone. A man was weeping.

A raw hate seeped into Harpala and with some astonishment she realised that O'Neill was feeding back his own thoughts into her, a feeling of utter self-loathing and depression; a dark tunnel with no light and where not even death could bring release. She pulled herself away from his mind.

O'Neill looked pale in the gathering gloom, Harpala's skin tone almost matching his own. "Did you realise?" she said, trying to shed the terrible, hopeless feeling, "That you were feeding your visions back?"

"What?" O'Neill asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"Never mind," Harpala replied, waving her hand to symbolise he should forget it; but her dark face remained puzzled long after she had bade them farewell. 


End file.
